


just the way you make me feel

by questionsthemselves



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe, EMT Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Mechanic Derek, Stiles is pining and oblivious, hot grumpy nerd derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-22 06:37:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14302989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionsthemselves/pseuds/questionsthemselves
Summary: Fuck. That car absolutely had just slammed into that guy. Sure Distracted Douchebag was probably only going five miles an hour. But in that kind of a goddamn penis-replacement of a monster truck, smashing into the front of that at any speed…Stiles drops his taco on his plate, sprints for the street. Thank god it isn’t rush hour, at least. Someone's already trying to hold up traffic, blocking the guy splayed face first on the ground. Hopefully someone at the taco truck calls 911, because he may be an EMT but there’s only so much he’s gonna be able to do for someone for someone who’s been hit by a goddamn truck.Or Stiles has seen a lot of shit as an EMT, but he's never seen a guy who gets himself nearly killed and then walks away without a scratch quite as often as Derek Hale





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my first fic in the Teen Wolf fandom, yay! It's been a while since I watched the series, so please forgive any canon errors :)

Fuck. That car absolutely had just slammed into that guy. Sure Distracted Douchebag was probably only going five miles an hour. But in that kind of a goddamn penis-replacement of a monster truck, smashing into the front of that at any speed…

Stiles drops his taco on his plate, sprints for the street. He spares a wistful thought for it as he runs, because Kiko’s Tacos are the absolute _bomb_ and normally he works the wrong shift to get here when they’re open. The one problem being a mom-and-pop taco truck, running on mom-and-pop hours.

Thank god it isn’t rush hour, at least. Someone's already trying to hold up traffic, blocking the guy splayed face first on the ground. Hopefully one of the customers at the taco truck calls 911, because he may be an EMT but there’s only so much he’s gonna be able to do for someone for someone who’s been hit by a goddamn truck. 

Some oblivious concerned citizen has beat Stiles to his surprise patient, bending over to tug at the man splayed across the ground. 

“Hey, don’t move him!” Stiles hit the edge of the sidewalk, flaps his arms in a giant x. He slides to his knees, starts scanning on autopilot but before he do anything more the man flips on his back. 

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t move, yeah?” Stiles’ raises his hands, tries to project calm. If the man gets agitated, it’s only gonna make this worse. The citizen’s retreated to the sidewalk before Stiles can think to ask her for some help, but then Stiles’ eyes jump to the man’s face and freeze because damn _._

He’s _gorgeous_. 

And glaring right at Stiles, as he completely ignores Stiles’ very reasonable request, to push himself up on his elbows. 

“Sir, my names is Stiles and I’m an EMT with Beacon Hills Fire and Rescue, alright, I need you to stay still until help arrives,” Stiles reaches out, palms flat. Maybe the man had a head injury, was still a little in shock. “You could have a spinal injury.”

The man’s eyes narrow and in his lips purse in to what is absolutely, definitely a pout, and why is it so adorable. He looks like he bench presses elephants for fun, he shouldn’t be so adorable. 

“I’m fine.” 

Before Stiles can stop him he’s struggling to his feet, slapping dust off his admittedly nice jeans as he goes. The stupid douchebag of a driver has sped off far down the road by now, and Stiles kicks himself for not getting the license plate number. Whatever. Right now, he needs to get Stubborn Hottie to stop _moving around_ and let Stiles check him out. 

Except, he’s not staying, he’s walking away. Not limping, not clutching at an injury, nada. Just. Walking away, like he’s out for a resentful Sunday stroll.

“Dude, seriously,” Stiles pushes off the hot pavement, shakes his hand absently at the sting. “Hold still for a moment, you just got hit by a truck.”

There’s a crowd now, on the sidewalk, the helpfully clueless passerby among them. They’re all clucking anxiously, and good. At least they’re sticking around. Hopefully _someone_ called 911, and the police will be here soon to take their statements. Maybe one of them saw the license plate. 

Grumpy Cheekbones pauses long enough to clench his fists, mutter, “It wasn’t going that fast, I don’t need any help,” before walking past the chattering cluster and down the sidewalk and wait. Where’s he going? 

Stiles stumbles after him, nearly tripping over the curb edge in his rush. 

“Look, okay, I don’t think you’re fine, but whatever,” he says soothingly, “At least wait until the police arrive, they’ll need to get your statement.” 

He doesn’t understand. He’s _sure_ that truck was going fast enough to knock the man clean off his feet, and doesn’t seem to even have a bruise? A single scrape? 

“Not gonna press charges,” Hottie McCrazypants grunts. “I’m fine. I’m going home.”

“ _Not gonna_ … okay look,” Stiles huffs as he jogs to catch up, “that asshole needs someone to read him the riot act, we can’t just let him get away with that–“

“There’s no we,” Sir Scowls-a-lot hutches his shoulders. Stiles droops, and now he’s finally caught up he can turn, jog backwards. Only so he can be polite and look the man in the eyes after all. Nothing to do with those ridiculously blue-green eyes. Nope.

“Stop following me.” 

Stiles flings his hands in the air. This man is practically built out of frustratingness. “I will when you stop being an idiot and hold _still_. “

Stubborn Sourpuss makes a sharp left turn and ooo. Is that a motorcycle? Or _course_ he has a motorcycle. All he needs is tattoos and maybe a lone wolf chasing-down-bad-guys kinda job and then he can check absolutely all of Stiles boxes. 

And he doesn’t have a helmet. Of fucking course he doesn’t. 

“Look, I can see that clearly you're a tough guy, very stoic, suck it up like a champ and all that,” Stiles manfully ignore the way Mr. Practically a Model’s jeans stretch over his ass as he swings his leg over the bike. “But there’s this little thing called internal injuries, and just maybe you might wanna get checked out so you don’t, I dunno, die a slow painful death.”

With a flick of a wrist, the bike growls to life, sullen and popping. Hishands flex on the handles, and then without another look at Stiles he kicks off, goes roaring off down the street. 

The  _nerve._

Behind Stiles comes the wail of sirens growing louder and louder, neon-bright lights flickering out of the corner of his eye.

Well. If he can’t actually help that stubborn idiot, he might as well go let the responders know what happened. In a moment. He should probably watch the broad leather-clad shoulders of Gorgeous and Growly rapidly shrinking in the distance. 

Just in case he has a sudden change of heart. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Left, right. Left, right. Stiles swivels on his stool, toeing himself one direction, then the other. Ugh. Last shift there’d been five calls, how come he was almost done and there was yet to be one? 
> 
> And of course, because this is Stiles, his thoughts are exactly the temptation fate needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, so i got the lowdown on how fire station calls work nowadays from my small town firefighter/emt brother, but any mistakes beyond that are my own :)

Left, right. Left, right. Stiles swivels on his stool, toeing himself one direction, then the other. Ugh. Last shift there’d been _five_ calls, how come he was almost done and there was yet to be one? 

Maybe he should look into transferring to a bigger station. Boredom and his brain were like cats and dogs, or at least the kind of cats and dogs that leapt at each other’s throats because they weren’t _all_ like that, Scott’s cat actually adored his dog and–

Anyways. He loved his job here enough he’d never really been able to make himself go through with it. But when days dragged like this, the temptation always popped up like that one annoying pimple that never really seemed to go away.

And of course, because this is Stiles, his thoughts are exactly the temptation fate needs. 

_Brrrb brrrb_

His phone. Stiles grabs for it, fingernails skating across the surface as he mashes the password in. Finally a call.

The page from the dispatch center pops up, and wait, _what?_ Shoving his phone in his pocket he sprints for the truck, Erica and Boyd close behind him. 

“Did you fucking see it?” Stiles hollers as they dress out, “a fucking _gas leak_ explosion.”

“Stop yapping, Batman” Erica rolls her eyes, flaps a hand in his direction. “Let’s go _.”_

 

By the time their truck pulls up what used to be an engine shop, judging from the half-charred sign reading _Hale’s Engines_ , most of the fire is under control. They’re the third on scene, and Stiles starts scanning immediately for any casualties because boy howdy are gas leaks no joke. 

The only non-first responder that seems to be here though is a sullen heap of bristling orange blanket, and wait. It’s Chisel-jawed Crankmeister. What’s he doing here? 

Stiles grabs his bag out of the truck, starts moving closer. The man's arguing with one of the other EMTs, who seems to be trying to put an O2 mask on him. She looks… vaguely familiar actually, but then the EMT community around here is small. He’s sure she’s one of the part-time volunteers or something. 

If Stubbly Sourpuss is being even half as stubborn as the last time Stiles encountered him, he can just bet that she needs backup. And Stiles is the best backup. Just ask Scott.

“Hey,” Stiles jogs over, hiking up his bag when it bangs into his shoulderblade. “You probably remember me.”

The man looks up, gorgeous green-blue eyes widening, then narrowing as he growls, “ _You._ ”

So he remembers. 

“Me,” Stiles stops just to the side, squats. “You gonna actually listen to me this time, or is nearly getting blown up fine too?”

The other twig of an EMT looks at Stiles, eyes widening. Then without a word to him, she turns and hurries off back towards the chaos. Stiles stares at her retreating figure a moment, disconcerted. 

Rude. And strange.

“Wasn’t,” Scowly McScowlerson stares over Stiles ear, hands clenching at the blanket. “Happened while I was outside. I don’t need this stupid blanket.” 

“Aw, what did that blanket ever do to you?” Stiles starts casually zipping open his bag, pulling out his kit. “Casting imprecations on it like that.” 

Maybe this time he can get the man to stay still long enough for Stiles to actually check him over. Unfortunately, the man has eyes like an eagle. Or a wolf. Some kind of predator. 

“I told you, I’m _fine_ ,” the man snarls, pushes to standing. The blanket drops in a sad heap behind him. “Now I’ve got to makes some calls about this clusterfuck.”

Make some calls…?

Oh. Huh.

“You work here?” Stiles pushes off the ground, teetering as he gets to his feet. The man’s already got his cell phone out, an ancient looking brick of a thing. He doesn’t look at Stiles as he says, “I own here.” 

Well. That’s impressive. He looks awfully young to own his own business. Although it’s gonna be a while before he’s open for business again, the damage is pretty bad. 

Considering what could have happened though, Magic Mechanic Mike here is pretty damn lucky. 

“This isn’t the first gas leak i’ve seen,” Stiles says, moving just enough he can casually scan the man’s back. He hadn’t seen any injuries on his front, but with the kind of stoic bullshit this man was clearly mired in Stiles couldn’t be sure he wasn’t hiding a bleeding head wound. If it gave him a rather nice view of the flex of Surly Sourpuss’s traps as he poked at his phone, well. That was just coincidence. 

“You’re lucky you weren’t closer to it, or we might be scraping you off the concrete.” 

The man stops jabbing at his phone to glare at Stiles.

“Your bedside manner this good with everyone, or am I just special?”

Harsh. Stiles mouth drops open and he spreads his hands. “Hey, I am the absolute _model_ of good patient interaction.”

“You’re the absolute something alright,” Mister Snark mutters under his breath. He seems to have finally given up on his one-fingered pecking at his phone, and shoves it into his front pocket. Shoulders hutching he makes for his motorbike, leaning just off the road. 

Dammit, what is with this guy and ignoring him? It isn't to be borne. Stiles is at least gonna get something out of this little encounter.

“Look wait, what’s your name? I need it for the report?”

Stiles doesn’t need it for the report. Which someone else is definitely doing. 

But, well. Recalcitrant Smolderdoesn’t know that. 

And besides, he can’t just keep calling him That Sourfaced Hottie. 

Stiles bends down to shove his kit frantically back into his bag. The zipper gets stuck halfway up, and he gives up, puts it carefully on his shoulder as he jogs after the man.

“C’mon, dude, throw me a bone here.” 

The man glances up from his seat on the motorcycle. He ducks his chin, eyes narrowing even further. His jaw works, then he blurts out gruffly, “Derek Hale. My name is Derek Hale.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks y'all so much for the kudos and comments! Since I'm a newbie to this fandom, I really wasn't expecting it and it's made my week. Special shoutout to SpicySweet, MiddyMoony, Dragmir, intellectualblonde, NikoPerri101 and thecrazyhippieone for giving me the comment fuel to get this chapter ready to post <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so Stiles might a little distractible. Maybe even a lot, if you ask his dad, but Stiles is absolutely, positively, not stupid. Even in the chaos, he knows what he saw.  
> And there’s nowhere else that bullet could have gone but into Derek Hale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one has taken a few days! It's been one of those weeks, I tell ya.

 

Okay, so Stiles might a little distractible. Maybe even a lot, if you ask his dad, but Stiles is absolutely, positively, not stupid. Even in the chaos, he knows what he saw.

And there’s nowhere else that bullet could have gone but into Derek Hale. 

“Okay, so maybe you’re just in shock,” Stiles forces his hands to still, his voice not to shake. He’s a professional, dammit. And sure, armed robberies might not be his everyday response in Beacon Hills. This might, in fact, be the first one he’s ever responded to before. But Stiles is the best at his job, okay, and Scowls– um, _Derek_ , need him. 

His help. Whatever. 

“I’m not in shock. Because I didn’t get hit,” Derek won’t look straight at him, shoulder tense enough they’re hiked nearly up to his ears. His eyes dart around like he’s still expecting an attack from any corner, he’s practically quivering, and he’s _definitely_ in shock. 

“Look, how ‘bout you just sit down for me,” Stiles uses his most soothing voice, ghosts a hand over Derek’s bicep to try and guide him away from the door. “The police have got it from here.” 

Derek’s muscles flex against his hand and Stiles manfully resists the urge to grope at them. Honestly, does the man lift cars for fun as well as repair them?

“If I sit down, will you leave me alone?” Derek huffs, turns and stomps towards the edge of the curb, and _hey._

Rude. 

“No can do, my grumpy friend,” Stiles says brightly. “See my fancy little badge here?” 

He pokes at his chest. “It means it’s my job to not leave you alone until I make sure you’re not, I dunno, _bleeding out of a hole in your body._ ” 

And even if Stiles hadn’t seen what he thought he had, crouched down and half hidden by the shelves as the practically foaming-at-the-mouth robber had pulled the trigger – one of Derek’s arms hasn’t moved, from where he has it clenched to his side. His face too, is a shade or two paler than normal, and Stiles is pretty sure it’s not just the washed out twilight lighting. 

Derek practically collapses on the pavement, still not looking at Stiles. Dammit. That was way less graceful than Stiles has seen him be. 

“C’mon, man,” Stiles crouches, spreads his hands. “Lemme just check you over. Peace of mind for me, okay?”

From this close, he can feel the heat coming off Derek, heat, and the smell of whatever fancy cologne he’s wearing that really, really makes Stiles want to bury his face in Derek’s neck. Or his chest. Or…

Stiles shakes himself. No, bad, this is focusing on making sure the man who saved his life is not dying time, not indulge in his guilty fantasies time. 

Derek’s looking at him now, eyebrows all bunched up, like Stiles is the most frustrating puzzle anyone’s ever put in front of him. 

Stiles can practically taste victory. 

He lets his voice soften, leans forward until his knuckles are just brushing Derek’s knees.

“You saved everybody in there, taking down that guy like you did,” he says. “So, y’know, thank you. For that.”

Derek’s lips part and his face is scrunching up, and then he jerks, hisses in pain. Before Stiles can stop him he staggers to his feet.

“Wait, what did I–“ No no no, that’s not what Stiles had meant to do, he doesn’t understand, he’d been so close. But Derek doesn’t stop, keeps staggering away determinedly, focused on his bike. 

Stiles doesn’t even bother to try and chase him this time, just stares as Derek rides shakily away. At least he’s got a name, for when the police finish securing the scene and the perp and get to interviewing the witnesses

Something’s going on here. Something more than just a dude getting lucky. One or two near brushes with death in a week might be coincidence, but three is a pattern, and he’s gonna get to the bottom of this. 

And if Derek happens to look at him afterwards with gratitude instead of grump, maybe ask what he can do to thank Stiles… well. A man can dream, after all. 

“Stiles, dammit _Stiles!_ ” 

Shit. His dad. 

“Hey dearest father of mine,” Stiles pushes himself to his feet, only to be grabbed firmly by both shoulders and yanked forward into a hug. Aw, yeah. Nothing quite like his dad’s full body hugs. After a beat, John pushes back, scanning up and down Stiles’ body like he’s afraid there’s some terrible wound Stiles is bravely hiding. 

Ha. Joke’s on him. Stiles has never bravely hidden a thing in his life. 

“I’m fine, Derek football-tackled the guy before he could do more than shout a bunch,” Stiles grins, scrubs a hand across the back of his neck. 

“Derek? Derek _Hale_?” John tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Wait, no, tell me exactly how you managed to end up in the middle of convenience store robbery.”

Stiles mouth drops open. “Hey, I didn’t do it on _purpose.”_

John shakes his head, finally letting go of Stiles to put his hands on his hips.

“You’re not even on shift where your job actually is being there at emergencies. Oh no, you had to go find one on your off time.” 

Well, that’s just mean. 

“I just got off shift, and anyways these things just happen around me, it’s not my fault,” Stiles huffs. “And besides there’s a more important question here.”

John’s skeptical expression clearly says he can’t think of any question more important right now than the question of Stiles’ wellbeing. Really, he needs to move on because what Stiles really needs to know is “– that question being what do they know about the guy who did this?”

“Oh no,” John says firmly.“You’re an EMT not a police officer, and I’m not talking to you about an open investigation.”

Clearly he needs more persuasion. 

“C’moooon,” Stiles wheedles,”Just a little talking. I know they gave you the lowdown on your drive here.” 

He widens his eyes. “And I was just shot at, maybe I need to know if I’m,” he lowers his voice dramatically, “in _danger._ ” 

John knows him too well to fall for his antics, but he purses his lips, seems to weigh the odds in his head. 

“Fine,” he says. “He definitely isn’t local. And whatever he’s shooting, and the ammo he used, aren’t exactly standard grade.” 

Ooo. Curiouser and curiouser. 

“It’s strange for a run of the mill robbery, so until we figure out if there was another motive I want you to keep your guard up.”

Well then. Stiles is intrigued. But before he can wheedle out any more answers, John holds up a hand. 

“That’s it. I wasn’t kidding,” he says. “We’re gonna get some food, and then I’m taking you home.”

“Fries?” Stiles says hopefully. If there’s any day he deserves fries on, it’s definitely this one. 

“Fine, fries,” John loops an arm gently around his shoulder. “Now c’mon son, let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again so much to everyone who's left kudos, and especially thanks to the lovely yodasyoyo,intellectualblonde, CaptEdKenway, JujuBean, dandelion_pearl88, Dragmir, NikoPerri101, and vanillawg for leaving comments. <3

**Author's Note:**

> comments fuel the writer, and all will be replied to <3


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